Hugh Mills - Low Level Hell

From my position on his right wing, I could see Sinor and Kauffman in the snake’s cockpit wrestling with the now-hardening controls. In his struggle to help fly the aircraft, Kauffman had dropped his map and wasn’t able to pinpoint a grid of our location. Well, I thought, I’ll figure that out later.

Suddenly I saw a clearing ahead that looked big enough for the Cobra. The ground looked wet and soggy, and there was a tree or two, but otherwise it was OK, considering our state of affairs.

I circled around off Sinor’s wing and keyed the mike. “All right, Dino, there’s the clearing. I’ve got you covered. Go ahead and put her down. Watch the tree… watch your tail to the right, you’ve got a tree.”

Three One powered the big bird down into a controlled landing. He must have used the last drop of fluid in his system before the accumulator locked up. I started breathing again.

I circled close above as Sinor cut emergency power and fuel switches and the rotors began to wind down. The aircraft, other than the skids being stuck down halfway in the mud, looked in pretty good shape. And the crew was OK; I saw both men unbuckle and throw open their individual canopies.

Kauffman exited on the left side with his CAR-15 in hand. He ran around the nose of the ship to Sinor, who was just jumping out on the right. The two men crawled underneath the ship’s right rocket pod. Kauffman was down on all fours, getting his CAR-15 into firing position.

I couldn’t believe where they had taken up their defensive position. The Cobra’s fuel cell, containing probably three hundred to four hundred gallons of JP-4, was right over their heads. In addition, there were the two rocket pods, one on each wing, still full of thirty-eight 2.75-inch explosive rocket rounds. What a place to be with the possibility of somebody shooting at you!

As I looked down again, I noticed that Sinor was doing something funny with his right arm, kind of shaking it with short, choppy jerks. It looked as though something had happened to his arm or hand, probably when he put down the ship.

My speculation was interrupted by Kauffman, who had gotten his PRC-10 radio out of his emergency vest and was talking into it. “One Six, One Six.” His voice was a bit shaky. “Are you there? Can you hear me, One Six? I’m on Guard freq. Come in, One Six!”

“I’m here,” I answered. “I’m circling just to your sierra echo. Is Three One all right? Looks to me like he’s hurt. Did he injure his hand or arm?”

“Nope, he’s not hurt, One Six. He’s just got his pistol caught in his sock and can’t get it out.”

Cobra pilots seldom had reason to use their personal weapons when they flew, so they carried their sidearm in their shoulder holster, wrapped in a sock. They’d clean, oil, and load the weapon (usually a Model 10, 4-inch barrel Smith and Wesson revolver) and stick it into a sock to keep out dust and dirt. It worked well except when the knot in the top of the sock pulled tight and the weapon wouldn’t come out.

With Sinor jerking away, Kauffman continued to set up a defensive firing position under the right wing of the Cobra—with thousands of pounds of fuel and ordnance over his head. I radioed again.

“OK, Larry, you and Dino get the hell away from that wing and move down to the tail of the aircraft where you won’t have all that JP-4 and ammo on top of you. I’m going to sweep around the area and find out where Charlie is, then see what I can do about getting somebody to get you guys out of here. Sit tight for now.”

I keyed Parker on the intercom. “Jimbo, get ready back there. We’ve gotta keep the bad guys from coming down this way and messin’ up the rest of Sinor and Kauffman’s day. I don’t have a push on the friendlies up here, but I imagine they’re 25th Division on this west side of the river. Watch out for them if you have to shoot.”

I pointed the bird straight north from the downed Cobra and almost immediately began taking heavy AK-47 fire. I heard hits in the fuselage and the tail boom area.

“Sir,” Parker yelled, “we’re catching it but I can’t see them! And I can’t shoot because of the friendlies!”

My God, I thought, those gooks can’t be more than seventy-five to a hundred meters away from Sinor. I whipped the Loach around in a sharp 180-degree turn to get back on top of the Cobra. I could see Sinor and Kauffman huddled underneath the tail boom, looking north, where they must have heard the AKs open up on me.

Their faces showed their predicament. They looked alone and scared. The airborne power, speed, and heavy armament of their AH-1G gunship was gone. Sinor and Kauffman were on the ground, with nothing more than a rifle and a revolver (maybe still stuck in its sock) to try to ward off an enemy that had obviously seen the Cobra go down.

Having been in similar circumstances, I knew what they were feeling. Every nerve ending in your body flashed red hot, then ice cold, feeling like thousands of little pins repeatedly stabbing you. Your eyes strained, trying to penetrate the dense foliage and see the soldiers whom you knew were closing in with their AKs. Tightening the clammy grip on your weapon, you breathed in short little gasps, wondering how you were going to get out of this mess.

I knew I had to get somebody in there fast to snatch these guys. It wasn’t going to be long before the VC were down on that Cobra. Sinor and Kauffman wouldn’t have a chance.

I got on the radio again to Sinor. “Three One, One Six. They’re close, Dino. Charlie’s about a hundred meters to your north front and headed your way. They may just want to hug for security, knowing we can’t shoot when they get that close in on you, but I want you to stand by while I go up on Guard to see what I can get in here to take the heat off. Stay cool.”

Before he could roger, I went back up on Guard freq. “Break, break, any aircraft… any aircraft on Guard. This is Darkhorse One Six. I have an aircraft down at the northwest corner of the Iron T; crew is down. Any aircraft vicinity of the Iron Triangle, come up on Guard. Over.”

A voice came right back at me. I recognized it immediately as one of our Darkhorse snake drivers, Paul Fishman (Three Four). He had been working farther up north that day with scout Bob Davis.

“I got you, One Six,” he said. “This is Three Four up on Guard. Where are you?”

“Good to hear your voice, Three Four,” I answered. “I’ve got trouble. Three One is down. Crew is OK for now but they’re in close vicinity to a contact between U.S. and Victor Charlie located about a hundred to a hundred and fifty meters north of their position.”

“I don’t have a grid,” I continued, “but I’m at the northwest corner of the Iron Triangle, about two, check that… about six klicks south of fire base Tennessee, near fire support base Aachen. Do you copy my location, Three Four?”

“Good copy, One Six,” Fishman came back. “We have your approximate location. We’re up in the vicinity of Thunder III right now. We’re going to start your way. Where are you in relation to Highway 14, One Six?” I tried to relay our position via landmarks.

“Roger, One Six,” Fishman came back, “I got you covered. We’re on the way, balls to the wall!”

“One more thing, Three Four, I’m lima lima and too low to make radio contact with the troop. Can you get hold of troop ops and scramble the ARPs? We need help up here fast before Charlie overruns Sinor and Kauffman.”

“Roger that, One Six. We’re en route and I’m scrambling the ARPs. Hang in there!”

Then my Guard freq crackled again, only this time in a deep Australian accent. “Hello there, Darkhorse One Six, this is Sidewinder One Five, your friendly neighborhood FAC. I hear you’ve got trouble, Matie. I’m just coming off Dau Tieng with a full load of Willie Pete and guns on board. Can I be of any assistance?”